


The Firsts, Seconds, Thirds, and Sometimes Sixths of Inspector G. Lestrade

by VeryImportantDemon



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF!Lestrade, Bisexual!Lestrade, F/M, First Child, First Date, First Kiss, Greg Lestrade is Sherlock's dad, Kid Lestrade, M/M, first bullet wound, first umbrella, first vow, just giving greg some love, written for let's write Sherlock challenge
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-14
Updated: 2015-03-14
Packaged: 2018-03-17 20:26:05
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,395
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3542708
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VeryImportantDemon/pseuds/VeryImportantDemon
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Greg Lestrade has had a long life. He's been kissed by girls and boys. He's been on dates, some successful, some not. He's made vows, and he's broken only one of them. He's had children, and he sees two of them very frequently. He's been shot. But he's never, ever bought an umbrella.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Firsts, Seconds, Thirds, and Sometimes Sixths of Inspector G. Lestrade

**Author's Note:**

> I do not own Sherlock or any of the characters  
> Enjoy :)

_First Kiss_

Gregory had his first kiss when he was exactly 6 years and 3 months old. It was at his father's brother's nephew's cousin's former roommate's stepdaughter's birthday party. Gregory was very indignant about being told he was going to a  _girl's_  party. A birthday party for a  _girl_. He didn't even know her! He didn't even know anyone! Why did  _he_  have to come? It was  _stupid!_  The young boy, his hair a messy mop of black, was finally coerced into attending the  _girl's_  party when his father told him that there would be cake and ice cream and he'd take little Gregory out to his favourite park and they'd play football after. Gregory  _loved_  football.

The birthday girl's name was Sally. (Of course, Gregory didn't quite see the irony in that until years, years later.) She was turning  _7._  The party was very boring, as Gregory had predicted in the car on the way over, and he sat next to  _Sally_  with his arms crossed the entire time she was opening presents and when they were playing games, he didn't participate. He was about to look around for his dad and ask him if they could  _please_ leave, but his dad was nowhere to be found. His dad had found Sally's mother when they arrived and he hadn't seen either of them since. Then, then... The blessed hour had finally arrived. The only reason he'd come. The  _cake._

Sally plunked down next to him at the table and grinning, dimples in her cheeks prominent. "Gregory!" she said happily, and one of the parents slid a plate of cake and ice cream down to him. He grabbed a fork and stuck a mouthful of cake in his mouth, surveying the girl suspiciously. She might have cooties... How did she even know his name? He slowly chewed on the bite of cake - it was chocolate, his favourite - as she spoke. She was wearing a pink party hat -  _pink,_ the whole  _party_  was pink - on top of her curly blonde hair. "You're cute, Gregory," she said, stretching out his name. Cute? No one called him  _cute._ He wasn't  _cute._  He was manly.

He arched an eyebrow at her, stuffing another bite of cake into his mouth so he didn't have to talk. She studied him right back as she played with her own piece. "Have you ever kissed a girl, Gregory?" He blinked in surprised and almost spit out his mouthful of cake. He swallowed it and indignantly answered, "No!" Sally laughed at him. She took a bite of her own cake, making sure a load of vanilla icing graced the top of it, and chewed it carefully before swallowing. "I've kissed a boy before."

Greg swallowed in surprise. She had kissed someone? "I've kissed lots of boys, Gregory," she continued conversationally. "Lots?" the young boy squawked. Sally nodded. " _Lots._  I can teach you how to, if you like." She didn't even wait for him to answer before she swooped in. She squished her pale pink lips onto his before he'd had a chance to register it was happening. He sputtered loudly and pulled back waving his arms. " _Sally!_ " he shouted, his mind pinwheeling. She flashed him a cheeky grin. "You'll get better at it," Sally promised, and she went back to her cake.

She wasn't wrong.

_(Gregory's second kiss happened when he was 13 years old, behind the stands at a football game. It was with a boy named William, and he never saw the irony in that, thank God._

_Inspector Lestrade's 23rd kiss was with a man named Mycroft Holmes.)_

* * *

_First Date_

Greg was 12 when he had his first proper date. It was with a girl, and her name was Ellen. Since it was the middle of winter - it was December the 15th, to be exact - he decided to take her ice skating.

They arrived in the heat of the session, dozens of people flooding the rather small ice rink. Skates strapped to their feet, Greg nervously offered her his arm. She was better than him at this, he already knew. But she liked ice skating, so he had to try... He bit the inside of his cheek nervously and glanced at her as she accepted his arm and smiled politely and they made their way through the crowd towards the rink.

As soon as his skates touched the ice, Greg knew this had been a bad idea. A terrible idea. Why ice skating? They could have just gone to see a movie like a normal middle grades couple. Why ice skating? He wobbled, flailing and grabbing for the side. He'd barely gone a few inches, Ellen gracefully gliding beside him, when he tripped and went sprawling, a few younger kids speeding past laughing at him. The teenager, his dark hair already lightening, frowned, grumbling as he clambered up, Ellen helping him. She was polite, if nothing else.

What follows of Greg's shitty first date was something around the likes of a bad romantic comedy. A bad one. They had skated a few laps, Ellen not having very much fun and leading Greg by the hand the entire time, and then on the third lap, Greg was tripped by a youngster, careened into his date, ending up with both of them in a crumpled heap on the ice, Greg on the bottom. Ellen rolled off of him and gracefully hopped to her feet, brushing her jeans off, indignant. She glanced down at Greg and offered him her hand. He was in awful pain, a handful of tears streaked and frozen on his cheeks. He scrunched up his face and she drew her hand back. "Greg?" she asked uncerntainly. "Are you alright?" He shook his head. "My ankle. It hurts."

The  _wonderful_  date ended with one of the men running the rink swooping over and carrying Greg off of the ice, his ankle swollen and proclaimed broken. To top it off, Greg watched as another skater swooped off with Ellen as he sat on a bench in pain, waiting for his mum - he hadn't seen his dad in years - to come take him to A&E.

He repressed it.

_(His second date was much more pleasant. It was with the aforementioned William, to a football game Greg was playing in, which he won. They even got to snog under the stands._

_His 137th date was with a dapper man in a suit with an umbrella.)_

* * *

_First Vow_

Greg was 24, a rising star at the Scotland Yard, when he made his first vow. He made it with Donna Graves, and they were standing at an altar. Greg was wearing a black suit that no longer matched his hair, with was done up very nice and no longer jet black but lighter, almost gray even though he was barely 25. It wasn't a getting-old gray, it was more of an attractive gray, so Donna told him. He was beaming, and they were holding hands, and grinning. Donna was wearing all white, her dress silky, a full skirt at the bottom. "Do you," the reverend began, "Gregory Francis Lestrade, take Donna Elizabeth Graves, to have and to hold, in sickness and in health, for richer or for poorer, for better or for worse, until death do us part?" Greg nodded, still grinning. "I do."

Donna spoke next, her British accent crisp as opposed to his after the reverend spoke again. "I do."

"Then you may kiss the bride!" Greg took her into his arms, his face split into a wide grin, his eyes glittering, and held her close, smashing his lips to hers. Sally had been right. He had gotten a lot better at kissing since his clumsy first attempt at that birthday party that he hadn't even been very well aware of. Cheers punctured the kiss and loud music began to blast as they proceded back down the aisle.

The happy couple slipped through the front doors of the chapel again, grinning, arm in arm.

Greg Lestrade broke his first vow. (They were divorced when he was 30.)

_(His second vow was much more important. His second vow was made to himself as he brought one almost-overdosed Sherlock Holmes into emergency. He vowed to protect Sherlock Holmes, whatever the cost.)_

* * *

_First Child_

Greg was 25 when Donna had their first child. She was a little girl, beautiful in his eyes. She was perfect.

Donna passed the tiny little girl into his arms and his eyes glittered, like they had on his wedding day, but a different sort of glitter. His daughter... She was small, but oh how he loved her right away. Her few hairs were bright blonde, a stark contrast to the jet black of his youth. It had to have come from Donna, the blondeness of his little daughter. "What shall we call her, Greg?" Donna asked. Her eyes were sparkling, too, and she grabbed onto Greg's elbow and held him as he held there little girl. He brushed a tear away from his eye, but he could not suppress his smile. He couldn't resist when he answered.

"Daisy. Daisy Elizabeth."

Daisy passed away 4 days later.

_(His never knew the gender of his second child. He or she died before he or she was born. Donna miscarried._

_His third and fourth children were born when he was 28. Twins. Two girls. Donna, for some reason, enjoyed flower names, so they called the twins Rosemary and Violet. He loved his little girls, loved them to death, but after they were two, he never saw much of them. In the horribly nasty divorce, Donna took everything, everything, even his girls, and left him. He wasn't allowed to see them except very rarely._

_His fifth child was a tall man in a billowing black coat with a dark blue scarf, shockingly bright eyes, pale skin, and a shock of curly black hair. His fifth child was a consulting detective who got off on murder and didn't have any friends. His first son was called Sherlock Holmes._

_He supposed that he ended up having a sixth child. He and Greg's son were a pair. His sixth child was a son in an awful jumper with blonde hair and a bullet wound in his shoulder. His sixth child was a doctor who always went out for drinks with him and also loves football. His second son was called John Watson.)_

* * *

_First Bullet Wound_

Lestrade was 34 when he was shot the first time. He would not like to repeat the experience, thank you very much. He was only 34 but was already on the track to be promoted to Detective Inspector. He was already very nearly buried in paperwork, newly divorced, and living in an awful flat by himself that smelled like wet dog permanently. (He spent as much time as he could at the office. Somedays, they had to kick him out. Somedays, Inspector Mark - his superior - handed him a blanket and the key to the building without a word when he locked up at night.)

However, if he had to repeat that day, he'd do the same thing every damn time.

They had a new officer, and it was his first time truly out. (A man. He was 23, cocky, and decidedly a bit German.) They received a report of a boy with a gun who were firing shots and threatening to kill someone. They were on drugs, Lestrade was told as Mark pulled him out of the door with the newbie, Anderson, the forensics officer, in tow. They had to stop him before he hurt someone.

The sight of the accident wasn't too far away from the Yard, really. Only 5 minutes by the car. Lestrade could hear the fight before he saw in. Two male voices were shouting, and there was the fire of a gun, and then a female voice. Lestrade hopped out of the police car. Mark was shouting at the kid with the gun, trying to get him to calm down and  _put the damn weapon down, son, you're going to hurt someone._ There was a body

It was a blur, what happened next. Lestrade heard it before he felt it. There was a loud, echoing  _twack_  as the boy - because that's all he was, just a boy, he couldn't have been older than 16, he was probably just scared - fired the gun. The stray bullet rocketed towards the newbie, who was too busy focusing on something entirely different - the other boy? Mark? the weather? Lestrade never found out - to even notice that he was being shot at. Lestrade sucked in a breath and hurtled towards him, slamming into his shoulder. Milliseconds before the two impacted, the newbie heard the blast and turned his head.

Just in time to notice the bullet.

Just in time to feel Lestrade body slamming him.

Just in time for Lestrade to drop to the ground on top of him, a bullet in his stomach.

It took Lestrade a few seconds - seconds that felt like hours - to realize that he'd been shot. He'd been  _shot._  A kid with a gun had nailed him. The man scrambled back, Lestrade's weight on top of him, none of the worse for wear. He was scared, Lestrade could tell, the man he'd just saved, because the back of his head hit the ground with a dull thud that added slightly to the fiery pain licking at his stomach. It burned. His stomach burned. He couldn't even see the wound yet.

So... This was what being shot felt like. This is what being shot for another man felt like. (Even if the other man was a bit of an idiot.) He tried to move his hands, because he wasn't an idiot, he was an officer, he knew you had to keep pressure on wounds, but he couldn't. His hands didn't move, they wouldn't work, they wouldn't do what he wanted them too. He still couldn't see it, but his front was soaked with red already. He could  _feel_  it. It was thick and warm and wet. He tried to pull his head up, and he barely managed a quick glance at his stomach before it thunked back down again. It was red. So much red.

The edges of his vision were going grey, and he could hear fragments of voices around him. "Oh my god! Oh my god!" That was the newbie. What was his name? Lestrade couldn't remember it now. He was alright, though...

Then another voice was shouting. It was Mark, he thought. Mark who was like his dad since his own left him years and years ago. "Look what you've done! You've hurt him! You could hurt someone else!" Who was he talking to? It took a moment before his pain-fogged brain connected the dots. The boy who had shot him. Suddenly, then, the burning in his stomach intensified. It was a white hot fire, burning at him, and he gasped for breath that his lungs couldn't find. Hands, hands that weren't very strong but they were trying, were pressing down on it. It brought him back from the brink of slipping under. He could see the man with brown hair and brown eyes hovering above him. "Officer. Officer Lestrade. What do I do? What do I do?" Lestrade gasped. His lungs were tight, but he had to speak. "Pr... Pressure," he stammered. He was spent and he could barely move. There was so much red, so much blood, and sleeping sounded like a very good idea right now...

There was an explosion of movement around them and Lestrade almost blacked out again. (He was told later, in the hospital, that after seeing Lestrade on the ground with blood soaking his stomach, the boy dropped his gun and they cuffed him.) Mark was at his other side in seconds. Lestrade tried to speak, but Mark hushed him. "Sh. Sh. Greg, do me a favour, shut up." Lestrade chuckled dryly, which maybe wasn't a very good idea because he couldn't breathe. "We called for an ambulance before we got here, didn't know if there were any injuries already. It's almost here. Greg. Hey. Eyes on me. Eyes on me, Greg."

The pressure disappeared for a moment and then was replaced, harder this time. Lestrade almost whimpered. "I'm sorry, Greg. Gotta keep you together for a little while longer. You did good. You did really good, Greg. Just, next time, I'd rather like it if you didn't get shot. Stomach wounds are a son of a bitch."

Lestrade laughed, but it was more of a wheeze, Mark's hands strong on his stomach. "He... Is he..." Mark nodded slowly, one side of his lips tilted up ever so slightly. "Yeah, yeah. Newbie's fine." This time, it was Mark who laughed. "Dammit, Greg. Taking a bullet for some newbie you barely know? That takes guts. You're gonna e the best of us, Greg, if you aren't already. You're gonna be the best of us."

That was the last thing Greg heard before the gray swallowed him, wailing sirens in the background.

_Mark waited with him even after he passed out. He waited with him until the paramedics came and took him away. He waited until Lestrade was pulled from under his hands, lying prone on a stretcher with blood pouring out of him, an oxygen mask on his face. (For good measure, he supposed.) "He saved me." It was the newbie's voice that hit his ears next as Mark slowly turned around. "He saved me. I didn't even know him that well, and he saved me."_

_Dryly, Mark laughed. "Well, get to know him, kid. He's gonna be DI one day. He's gonna be your superior. He's gonna be the best of us." Blood coating his hands, he began to walk towards the police car they'd brought, the boy already in the back. He glanced back when the newbie hadn't even moved. "Well, come on, Anderson. I don't have all night."_

_(Lestrade decided that he would repeat the experience. He'd saved Anderson that day. Anderson, in turn, saved his son many, many years later. Anderson believed Sherlock could come back, would come back, and Sherlock came back. Lestrade saved Anderson the believer that day.)_

_(The second time Lestrade was shot, it was in the shoulder._

_The tenth time Detective Inspector Lestrade was shot - he marked it as an anniversary - it was for the grace of a very important government official with a dapper suit and an umbrella.)_

* * *

_First Umbrella_

Inspector Lestrade was 44 when he picked up his first umbrella. (His daughters were 16, then. His son was 36, and his other son was 35 at the time. The doctor was younger than the detective.)

It was raining, dammit. He'd spent  _all_  day at the office yesterday, working on a particularly frustrating case, and all day today on the same one. He'd filled out so much paperwork his hand was numb. He was dead on his feet. There was no way he could catch a cab at this hour, and now, to top it all off, it was  _raining._ He sighed deeply as he reluctantly approached the door. He glanced at his watch, one hand on the door. 12:00 blinked at him. Byt the time he got home, it'd be 12:30, and he had to come in at 7:00 anyway. He might as well not even go home. He hesitated at the door, rain pounding it. He sighed again and pushed it open, wrapping his jacket tight around him.

As soon as he got within a few steps of the door, he was soaked. The rain was coming down  _harder_. He grabbed the collar of his jacket and pulled it over his head, trying, almost in vain, to shield his head from the pouring ran. It was about then that he started running, because he'd be damned if he was going to leisure stroll the half-an-hour walk home in this. (He might be able to make it in 20 at a jog.)

 _Rain, rain, go a-way,_ he sang dully in his head.  _Come a-gain some oth-er day._ His feet hit the ground repeatedly, one after another, as he ran down the sidewalk. He didn't see any cars or people on the streets. No cabs, at least around here. He would have taken one if there was. He ran for about 5 minutes before he swallowed to a walk, glancing around. He was soaked to the bone, water dripping and streaming off of his clothes. He was shivering, too, to top it off. He looked around, his jacket still over his head. There. A phone box. He could at least hide in there for a few minutes, catch his breath before he kept going. He ducked into the booth and pulled the door closed. It wasn't ideal, but  _finally_. He was somewhere  _dry._  Thunder rumbled in the distance and Lestrade sighed as he put his back to the wall and slid down it. He pulled his jacket off and rung it out in the booth, water already puddling beneath him.

He allowed himself 3 minutes to rest.

5 minutes later, he glanced at his watch. 12:12. He wasn't even halfway home yet! He sighed reluctantly. Just a few more minutes... He pulled his legs up, rested his forehead on his knees, and let his eyes flutter shut. Just 5 more minutes...

He woke up when there was a knock at the door. Immediately, he curled in tighter on himself without opening his eyes. "Go away," he murmured strongly. "'m asleep." A voice responded with a chuckle. It sounded vaguely familiar... The steady  _dripdripdripdrip_  of rapidly falling rain penetrated his vision and he blearily blinked up at the man who had found him in the telephone booth.

He was tall, at least from Lestrade's perspective on the ground. He was wearing a black suit, clearly tailored, it looked too perfect, with a matching tie. The man even held a striking umbrella, a  _perfect_  umbrella, in one hand. He didn't think it was humanly possible for someone to look as perfect as the man that was standing in front of him, smiling. "I'm s-" The man stopped him with a slight wave of one hand. "Oh, Gregory. It's alright. Would you like a ride home?" Still drowsy from his nap - his watch blinked !:16 at him - the DI nodded slowly. It hadn't even crossed his mind yet that this man could be a serial killer. Serial killers looked perfect. This man was perfect.

Perfect Umbrella Man held out his hand and pulled Lestrade to his feet. He swayed for a moment, blinking, and then slurred, "You could be a... A serial killer, Mr... Uh, Mr. Perfect-Umbrella-Man." The man chuckled, and he was still smiling. His smile made Lestrade want to smile, despite his drop dead exhaustion. "Why, thank you, Gregory." Lestrade didn't question how the man knew his name. "I assure you, I am not a serial killer. Just... Just an official." He held onto Lestrade's left arm, helping him stay upright. The perfect man opened the door, and the noises of the rainstorm grew louder. The man opened his umbrella, a sleek black car waiting a few feet away at the curb. "Come along, Gregory. We'll get you home." Lestrade smiled. For once, he was dry, the man leading him to the car, covered with his umbrella.

The interior of the car was warm. "I'll get your fancy car wet," he said, still not all together, glancing up at Perfect Umbrella Man, was had taken a seat beside him. "The drive will be short, Gregory. I assure, a little bit of rain in my car is not a very large deal."

It was a short ride, and Lestrade slept for it. He wasn't sure how, but he ended up with his head on Perfect Umbrella Man's lap when woke. He was gently shaking the DI awake. "Gregory," he said softly. "We're at your flat, if you would like to leave my vehicle and go to bed." A sloppy smile slid across Lestrade's features. The car door was opened, the umbrella was opened with a  _whoosh,_ and then Lestrade was on his feet again, the umbrella man was holding his arm, and he was leading him, dry under the umbrella, into his flat.

The umbrella man paused at the door and smiled. Lestrade weakly smiled, waving his fingers. "Thanks, Umbrella Man." The umbrella man smiled as the door reluctantly swung closed. "Thank you, Gregory," the man with the umbrella said. He wait on the stoop for a moment before turning away.

**FirstFirstFirstFirst**

When Detective Inspector Lestrade woke up the next morning, he wasn't sure how he got to his flat for a moment. Last he knew, he'd been snoring in a phone booth and then there was a perfect man with an umbrella and then he was here. The Umbrella Man! Lestrade threw his covers back, shivering slightly from cold. The Umbrella Man. He never properly thanked the umbrella man.

He quickly padded through the flat and flung the door open. On the doorstep, leaning against the wall, was a perfect, black umbrella with a note attached. He gently took it off the handle and skimmed the perfect cursive in black writing. Perfect. Like the Umbrella Man.

_Dear Gregory Lestrade,_

_I hope you do not mind that I took the liberty of... looking you up before we first officially met. You are well attached to my brother and I keep close tabs on those close to him. (Thank you very much for that, by the way.)_

_Forgive me if you seemed in need of a little bit of assistance last night. I have cameras, and one of them spotted you running through London at the latest hour of the night in the rain. So I came to fetch._

_I also hope you do not mind that I knew both your name and your address. I'm a government official. It is my job, after all._

_Detective Inspector Lestrade, I also took the liberty of procuring a day off of work for you this fine Friday._

_You may keep the umbrella._

_-M. Holmes._

_(Greg Lestrade never bought an umbrella. He always kept the one he was given by the Umbrella Man.)_

**Author's Note:**

> A totally wonderful user, A_len_ka, translated this fic into Russian! It can be found here - http://ficbook.net/readfic/3013061?show_comments=1#com33204230


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